Walls
by a porcelain scar
Summary: A poem scribbled on the wall makes Harry Potter wish for more. (being developed slowly by jun. chapter 3 up.)
1. Scribbles on the wall

  


**Title**: Walls  
**Rating**: PG  
**Warnings**: It's just some thoughtless fluff I wrote, again inspired by the geniosity of Raven. Angst? I don't know. I know it sucks and makes no sense, if that helps anybody. Oh, yes, the poem is called "Taming Forever" © Raven.  
**Summary**: A poem scribbled on the bathroom wall makes Harry Potter wish for something more.  
**Archive**: Go ahead.

  


_I remember that it was one of those ... Twists of fate ... That brought us together through ... The blinding hate ... I don't quite remember what made me ... Think myself wise ... My heart too often broken by ... Such sordid lies ... But there you stood like a stranger ... In the rain ... A gray-shrouded angel here ... To end my pain ... When things got tough you ... Walked that mile ... And I was drawing all my strength ... From your precious smile ... But here we sit after ... All this time ... Every single kiss we share ... Is still sublime ... While for some this magic ... Might be gone ... Ours is still flowing ... Just as strong ... And we know our love is different ... From our past ... Because what we share right now ... Shall forever last_

Harry's finger traced over those words, water dripping slowly from each fingertip. The water drenched the ink, black-stained liquid now running down the Gryffindor's olive-hued arms. But he didn't care. The poem was etched into his mind, along with the faint image of the poet's gray-shouldered angel. He sighed.

"I wish I had his angel." He whispered softly to himself and the empty bathroom, gripping his arms with his damp, ink-trailed hands. He scoffed, mentally scolding himself for thinking things. Yes, Harry Potter was loved by almost the entire wizarding population. Yes, Harry Potter had two best friends and the trust of many great people. But did Harry have anyone to truly love, and that person love him back? To have someone to love and cherish and the other do the same, as if it were fate that tied them together from the beginning... to have someone truly devote themselves to him, and will have no other. Someone, who in death, would force himself to continue living -just- -for- -him- -alone-. And someone, who will forever need and want him and him alone, and had always from far, far away.

No. He had nothing. All he had was a life of lies and loss, and for someone to do something like that for him, well, that was absurd. No one would ever dare do that for Harry Potter. He was nothing but the people's saviour. Nothing more than the current hero of the wizarding world.

The lanky Gryffindor stood up, looking at the semi-ruined poem. With a fleeting glare, he rushed to the sink and turned on the faucet, gathering the running water in his hands and showering it over the precious words scribbled on the wall. He wiped his arms free of the ink with his robe and stalked out of the bathroom.

A stall opened slowly, a small creak escaping the metal hinges of the cream-coloured door. A figure stepped out, grey eyes swimming with the familiar colourless hue of tears. Pale blonde tresses fell limply over the boy's eyes, hiding the tears that trickled like small rivers down from pooling orbs to the floor. But, unlike others that cried, this boy had a smile on his face. A solemn, docile smile that no one would have ever thought could come from the emotions that rested in this boy's being.

"You _are_ his angel, Potter." He said forlornly, watching as the transluscent black leaks of the diluted poem on the wall slid to the ground.

  
-finis- 


	2. A kind of silence that deafens

  


Hello, everyone, sorry that I've been gone. I went to Korea for a week and a half. Here's something my brother wrote since I've lost a lot of interest and inspiration. Thanks much, hyung.

  


**Title**: The Kind Of Silence That Deafens  
**Author**: Jun  
**Rating**: G  
**Warnings**: Small bit of angst, short, it's set the day after.  
**Summary**: Sequel to "Walls", Harry returns to the bathroom to find something more than just words.

  
  
===  
  


At night, all Harry was able to think about was that poem, and how at this very moment its author was probably crying at the sight of what he had done. Ruined it.

But every word still lingered in his mind, and he himself knew that they weren't going to leave him. Maybe if he wrote it again, word for word, in the same scribbled handwriting which he felt came from his own hands, the author wouldn't notice. But what if that person already had? Well, Harry had to at least try, didn't he?

And so with hesistant steps he made his way to the bathroom. The hall had already been filled with students waiting for breakfast, but were much too busy with their own chatter to notice the famous Harry Potter slip by them, tentative and slow as he was.

He stood there, searching for any sign that someone else was in here with him. But he felt nothing, saw nothing and heard nothing but the bathroom's scenery, the water running quietly through the pipes, and the endless muffled twittering of students outside. Yet his eyes still searched for something more. And they found it.

On the wall, again, in the very same spot where the poem he had destroyed was once written. Though instead of another lovely poem, Harry found a singular word in bold. A small, common word it was, yet Harry found himself drawn to it. What word held so much power as to draw a person to touch it, just to see and feel if it was real?

_Alone_

. 

Once he was directly in front of it, Harry found that he couldn't even lift his arms. He was frozen in time, unable to move yet he felt as normal as always. All he could see was the word, and everything around him was silent.

"Do you ever get that feeling, when you know you're loved even though love is completely unreachable to someone like you?"

Words swirled in his head, clogging his flow of thought. Only this voice was heard and understood. A shiver was the only movement he could offer as the hands of the voice were brought above his shoulders. Such a tiny distance from that touch, but still it seemed so far away.

_I know that feeling_, Harry thought.

The hands continued down, ghosting besides Harry's arms and hands slowly, as if to mock him. He stayed paralyzed.

"Or... that feeling you get when you think of angels and their stubborn will to remain hidden, away from your touch though their so... close..."

The voice seemed so desperate now, and the hands kept roaming without touching him. So close, and so far away. Harry wanted to shout and hold the voice close to him, but he couldn't. He was stuck in his own soundless void of loneliness.

"You know, that feeling comes with a kind of unbearable quiet. The kind of silence that deafens."

_Yes_, Harry thought. _Silence_.

He could barely feel the tears welling up shamelessly in his eyes. But he felt the touch given to him, a touch from a hand that wiped his tears away with a cold, fleeting sweep.

"They're waiting for you, Harry Potter."

And it was all gone. Harry stepped back, gasping at what felt like a newborn movement to him. His mouth was open, eyes staring bewildered at the wall in front of him. Empty.

Empty like the bathroom he stood in. He ran outside, weaving his way through the myriad of students, hoping to get one glance at that person. But all he saw, as he was shoved around by the crowds, was a grayish blur of a young boy with a pale face covered with tangled locks of an angelic blonde melting into the massive throng of people.

And as the gray boy disappeared, Harry sank bank into a world of a silent oblivion. He walked along with the rest of the students, and sat at the Gryffindor Table with the other Gryffindor, yet one single phrase remained true and vivid in his mind.

"The kind of silence that deafens..." He murmured, staring out about him, unable to recognize the voices of the people that claimed to love him. All he could familiarize were the pair of stormy eyes boring into him with a menacing glare from somewhere hidden among the students that were seated on the Slytherin's side.

-end-

i personally liked it. give him some feedback, i think he'd appreciate that.


	3. You don't see me

He was lying face up on the velvet of his bed, staring up at the patterns the angular stone ceiling. He had taken down the canopy to stare at the haggardly changing patterns. The more he stared at it the more he felt he could touch it if he'd just raise his hand. Then he would feel something just as cold as his entire system had been ever since that brief chance to realize just how unhappy he was. 

He was being selfish and he _wanted_ to be. 

He wanted to be loved more than anything. Friendship seemed so empty to him. He wanted to be held in someone's arms, hold someone in his arms, kiss them, be with them forever. He wanted it to be his grey-shrouded angel, no matter who it was. He felt that his angel was the only one who had ever understood him, who had ever felt every shrapnel of pain or happiness or relief or guilt he's ever experienced. His angel had the answer to everything he had a longing for. 

But ever since then there was nothing. Absolutely nothing but a void, a depth of darkness he'd never known he could possess, rivaling the death of Cedric, and the losses he had caused. 

Harry decided he needed to wake up from this. 

He started to put the canopy up, drawings the curtains to a close and sliding into his invisibility cloak. He tried best as he could to slip out of the common without being clumsy. He gave a heavy sigh as he reached the door to the bathroom, going inside quietly. 

He froze, taken aback by the small, bony figure of Malfoy standing in front of a mirror, where **alone** used to be. Harry was afraid to breathe, scared that he would notice him paralyzed and staring at him from behind. 

"It's like the opposite of Erised, isn't it," Malfoy let out rhetorically, sounding somewhat... more _honest_ and vulnerable than Harry had ever heard. He wanted to deny for a second that it was actually him. But what bothered him more is why Malfoy was there, standing before what he used to stand before. Were they really messages for Malfoy, and not for him? 

"It shows what you don't want to see. What you don't desire. And we all deny our true selves wherever we go, don't we?" It almost seemed like Malfoy knew he was in the room, but it didn't stop him from continuing. Harry stood dumbfounded and enthralled by the hypnotising grace of Draco's voice. 

"I learned from my father that nobody deserves what they receive. I have had the longest urge to put this mirror up and finally let you know who I am. But would you even be able to see me?" Draco laughed a little. "Probably not. I wouldn't prostrate myself to anybody even if I was faced with death." Harry could notice the strange change in his posture. Draco Malfoy was shaking. 

"But I think I would for you. But I'm not quite what you wished for, am I?" He stopped shaking, and his voice started becoming angrier, with himself, with the world. "What you see is what you get. And I am not what you want." 

He heard him take a sharp gasp. "And that is why you will never see me." 

Harry's eyes had become dry, entranced, his tongue desperate to say something. Without a second thought, as Malfoy stood staring, Harry moved behind him. Harry searched for words. But he knew he wouldn't say the right thing. He would say what his heart would, no matter where that got him. 

"You're wrong," Harry said, watching Draco's shoulders tense up. He looked up at the mirror and at the bewildered face of Malfoy. "You don't see me." 


End file.
